Dotty

After all the upheaval, surviving the backlash and making what I thought were concrete plans, I have decided to stay with my family.

I don’t know that this is the right decision for me as an individual – but I do know that leaving is not the best thing I can do for my family.  There are many things I need to change first before I throw the metaphorical baby out. I still believe that I am not the feisty, vibrant individual my children deserve to know – but I don’t know when I fell back into believing that person could only be brought alive by a man, or that a man could be the cause of her demise. I was brought up with that belief and somewhere, somehow during the last 10 years I have regressed.

I need to believe in myself again and I need to lose the strict contraints I have put around myself to define what makes me a good mother. Before Wee1 was born I believed I could only qualify as a good mother if

1. I used terry nappies (and the old-fashioned squares, not pre-made)
2. I breastfed exclusively
3. I served only wholesome home-cooked food
4. The television was never on
5. I used a real Silvercross pram
6. I enjoyed every moment of my baby’s company
7. I kept a perfect home
8. ….999. I stayed at home

The list goes on and on and on – and of course almost every item on the mile-long convoluting, strangling, suffocating mental list I made  has at one point or another fallen by the wayside. I am still a mother and my children are still fine human beings.

The last hurdle I have to face, and one which I suspect will cause more upset in my family than the thought of me leaving my husband is that I have to return to work.

I love my children – but their sole company is not enough to illuminate me. I will be the first person to acknowledge that this may indeed make me less of a person, but it is the truth. I need more. I need other adults to laugh with, battle with, be challenged by and fire off. I need the focus and adrenaline rush that comes with deadlines, deals closing and targets being hit and busted. I need to be employed outside the home.

As for Mr? I don’t know – I hope that the spark will return and that love will grow into what it should be. I know that we will both try. I know that what I seek is not to be found in the arms of another man (I really truly never thought it was).

I begin February knowing a lot more about myself but paradoxically understanding a lot less. Please bear with me.

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Picnics have been a part of my life since I can remember – from being packed off for the day as a child with a jam sandwich, a bottle of Dandelion & Burdock and a promise to be home by teatime to dining al-fresco in black tie deep in the Nambian bush beneath the twinkling skies.

Eating outdoors holds a magical allure for me – which I hope to pass onto the Wees. Picnics can be an impromptu decision to take a flask of coffee, some home-made flapjack and just sit by the river watching the ripples and eddies (and keeping an eye out for Mabel the crocodile), or it can be a planned long-anticipated afternoon of decadence with smoked salmon sandwiches, strawberries and Champagne watching an outdoor play or opera.

The joy for me is in the place and the company – and the irreverence. There are no rules (at my picnics, anyway) of the order in which food should be eaten. The Wees are free to get up, run, paddle, and return for another nibble as they wish. Picnics can be eaten anywhere: I’ve sat on a low wall in Mayfair with my aunt eating a sandwich, a city centre bench eating hot chestnuts, underneath the shade of a tree at the foot of a massive sand dune; public parks galore – but best of all are the secret places discovered by us.

The view while we laze, play and eat...

Weather provides no restraint: flasks of Bovril, that long-forgotten staple of my childhood; baked beans with slices of sausage (or whole sausages wrapped in foil), chunky soup with crusty bread… a picnic in the snow can be as memorable as any balmy sunny day.

Trekking in the foothills

Food does not have to be prepared at home: think of blisteringly hot fish and chips on sea wall with a biting wind, or crab claws sucked clean of their sweet juicy flesh: even an emergency dash into the newsagent to buy HulaHoops, bananas and Mr Kipling’s Fancies.

I was prompted to write this post, rather than any of the others scrapping for attention in my head, by a new website www.onlyfootprints.co.uk. Take a look, and follow them on Twitter @only_footprints.

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When my cousin first heard we would be camping in the very same county where she lives, it was a foregone conclusion that we would meet up. Layla-girl, her mother (my Aunty Cal), and I enjoy a rare and special relationship. Aunty Cal is only 9 years older than me – so is more of a big sister to me. Layla-girl is 19 years younger than me, but feels like my little sister. The three of us are much greater than the sum of our parts.
We decided that we would meet up on Sunday, the day before we left so that Layla-girl’s husband, the lovely Mr Chris could come along as well as their little boy Jamie. We planned a carefree hot day on the beach with Daddies playing football with little boys and we two relaxing on the sands catching up on all our news…
On Friday it rained.
On Saturday it rained.
On Sunday morning it rained.
We were due to meet at 11am. At 10am we exchanged frantic text messages debating Plan A, Plan B, Plan C…..?
At 10.30 am Mr Dotty opened up the flap of the tipi where I was huddled over the woodburning stove. ‘Come out here, quickly’ he whispered: ‘there’s something you should see.’ I peered through the mist – a deer, perhaps? We drove from Scotland to Scarborough to see a deer?! ‘No – look UP’. Oh dear: was Mr Dotty having a moment? Had Wee1 converted him to his own very special brand of Evangelical Monotheism? No… what Mr Dotty had spotted, through the mist, the drizzle and the heavy all-enveloping cloud was a pin-prick of white light. The SUN!!!!!!!!!!!
We hugged, we kissed, we threw caution to the wind and settled on Plan A.
The God(s), the Universe, Karma – it was all with us. After that tiny inauspicious start the sun came out, if not in force, then it was certainly a welcome and brave attempt. Layla-girl had dragged along the lovely Aunty Cal: we were happy campers indeed. Once we had done a tour of all the tipis, congratulating ourselves that we had indeed bagged the very best one, we drove off to the seaside.
Aunty Cal linked my arm in hers and with a purposeful stride announced: ‘Last to find the Crab Claws is a cissy!’. The Daddies gazed wistfully at the pub doors and were dragged unceremoniously away. Layla-girl (3 months pregnant) announced that she had a need for prawns NOW, and so we split into two groups: a fish and chip posse and a seafood posse: both would meet on the beach.

The prawns were no problem, we saw winkles and fell over ourselves giggling, nearly bought some to tease the Wees with, but then saw the price! When I was a girl they were 25p for a huge paper bag – today they are £2.35 for a miserly little polystyrene tray. The giggle disappeared into the sea air. We saw no Crab Claws on display… but then I spotted them: the most enormous bag you could ever imagine: as big as a supermarket carrier bag, for £6. ‘Shall we share?’ ”Oh YES!!’
Down on the beach, the Wees and the Daddies munched their fish and chips, Layla-girl finished her second tray of prawns and sat very still trying to convince herself that her morning sickness had indeed subsided as she had predicted, and Aunty Cal and I tore into our feast with gusto. Then we hit a problem. Quite a big problem. All the Crab Claws were big monster toe-pinching claws… not the little break-with-your-teeth and spend many happy minutes sucking a microgram of meat out of. Did we have a hammer; a nut cracker; a Swiss army knife; a grenade? No: we had two quite small jaws that were not quite up to the job. We bent them this way, we bent them that way, we even hit one against Mr Dotty’s head – but they would not yield… apart from one: the runt in the pack.

I happily gave up my vegetarianism for that one mouthful of sweet rosy flesh. Aunty Cal, as much as I loved her, went hungry.

By this time the Wees were running this way and that, building sandcastles, destroying them, chasing, catching, getting utterly drenched and caked in sand and having the time of their lives. They found a mini lagoon in an indent near the sea wall and it might just as well have been the most glorious infinity pool facing an azure Carribean sea: they were in heaven. It was an unmitigated joy: the companionship of family with an intertwined and interlocking history of support, husbands who have managed to find their own place within that unchartered structure, and a new generation just old enough to start playing together and to see where they come from.

And – just to cap it all – the fourth generation of our family (that we have photographic evidence of, anyway) rode their first Scarborough Donkeys.

Sentimental? Yes – unashamedly.

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Considering that we were camping in a pre-erected tent (or tipi) which came with bed bases for all of us, the preparations for our departure involved an awful lot of shopping. We were very lucky in that we borrowed a gas camping stove from my friend Imogen, who is far too near giving birth to her third child to be even contemplating camping this year (or next, I imagine!). The Wees already have sleeping bags, and I decided that I was far too old for wriggling around in a nylon sack, and our own duvet, with white cotton cover and matching pillowcases would be packed. This may seem a little over-the-top to you, but I assure you that this is nothing compared to the camping habits of my darling sister-in-law who packed white linen tablecloths, candelabra, silver and insisted that we all dine Black Tie. We even had a very jolly man come by and light the ‘donkey’, which was a rather Heath Robinson contraption that heated the water for our individual showers under the Namibian skies. However, I digress…. but you will soon find out why Namibian camping s-i-l style is such an easy reminiscence to fall into…

Shopping: we had to buy a dinky kettle (early morning cup of tea is non-negotiable, anywhere in the world), cheap cutlery, plastic plates and bowls, a barbecue, a picnic rug, camping chairs… the trolley filled at exponential speed. Where was this cheap holiday?

Early on Friday morning we gathered ourselves, enjoyed our last hot shower, I dried my hair and tried not to think about the forthcoming lack of electricity, and packed. And packed. And packed. And unpacked Wees ‘essentials’. And packed. By lunchtime (2 hours late) we were ready to set off. After a glorious week the mist started to descend over our lovely mountains and we rubbed our hands with glee, thinking we were going to leave the bad weather behind.

How wrong we were… a 4-hour journey turned into a 6-hour journey, crawling through mist and drizzle so dense we had to use fog lights. The Wees were amazing: apart from the not-quite-so-soon as 1 minute into the journey ‘how long till we get there?’, they were darlings, watching the world go by. In one town, Wee1, who constantly delights himself with his newly-acquired reading ability, passed the time reading traffic signs and shop names. ‘T; E; S; C; O: Mummy – there’s another shop called Tesco!!!‘ Yes, darling, I said… ‘Wow – does that mean there are TWO Tescos in this world?‘ If only, I thought….!

Eventually we arrived and were met by the loveliest, kindest, most helpful man imaginable. He directed us to the Tipi field (as yet out of sight) and as we drove in there was the most exuberant, heartfelt and unanimous ‘WOW!!!’. Suddenly the rain did not matter one jot.

The Wees ran barefoot through cold wet grass, we unpacked the car and lit the tiny but effective wood-burning stove and settled in for the family holiday of a lifetime.

We ran out of dry clothes; we ran out of dry bedding (Wee2 found the whole thing rather too exciting); we lived off takeaway food supplemented by local strawberries for 2 days (the barbecue would NOT light); we trudged through rain and mud to shower and to get fresh drinking water; and we would do it all again: maybe not tomorrow, but next year without doubt!

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We are the proud keepers of two little boys: Wee1 who is 5 and Wee2 who is 3. They are as the proverbial chalk and cheese – but, as is nature’s cruel and evil way, equally demanding: just in very different ways. Wee1 wants to know why things are, Wee2 wants to get down dirty and find out how. Wee1 is slight and sensitive but remarkably independent and resourceful; Wee2 is squat and bold but terrified of trying anything new (and certainly without his Mummy) and lost without someone’s hand to hold.
Wee2 attends a local playgroup for 21/2 hours a day which is worth its weight in gold: the play leaders are kind and beautiful and patient and loving: just what every 3-year-old needs. Wee1 is in his first year at Primary School and is learning to read at exponential speed. He is being taught a seemingly purely Christian perspective: which is curious, as his pre-school was really switched on about the festivals of other faiths. I must ask his teacher about this: I could be wrong and have just bred a ready-made Born-Again! The problem is that we don’t really live in a particularly ethnically diverse area, so he isn’t meeting people from other cultures/religions. It is changing slowly, but what do I do – run up to the only black family in town and ask to be their friend: because they are black? To me that has the same sincerity as those ghastly girls who want to be best friends with (any) gay men purely to boost their own kudos.
Anyway – whatever he is taught gets discussed at home and an alternative (where appropriate) proffered. However he has none of it: when I mentioned Darwinism as an alternative to Creationism this morning he didn’t stop laughing until we got to school. His take on Easter was that Jesus died on the cross, then got put in a cave, then the cave was empty because he’d gone back to the cross, died on it again, got put in a cave again, went back to the cross…. and so on… He can be very astute, though. He picked up a biography of Sir Walter Raleigh that I recently bought, asked about the man on the cover, so I explained who he was. Then he asked how he died, so I told him. ‘Why?’ Well, I replied, I don’t know – so that’s why I bought the book, to find out. ‘Hmmmm’ he replied, flicking through all 600+ pages of the book, ‘that’s an awful lot of words to find out why someone had their head chopped off’.

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